Old friends
by ozzysgirl
Summary: Two old men remember. A glimpse into the future. A one shot that popped into my head and I thought I'd better post it before it popped out again.


I don't own sons of anarchy.

'Old friends' Lyrics by Paul Simon

* * *

Old friends, old friends sat on the park bench like bookends.

A newspaper blowing through the grass. Falls on the round toes of the high shoes of the old friends.

Old friends, winter companions, the old men, Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sun

The sound of the city sifting through the trees

Settles like dust on the shoulders of the old friends

Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly

How terribly strange to be seventy

Old friends, memory brushes the same years. Silently sharing the same fears.

* * *

Charming, California, was a good place to grow old in. Apart from at the height of summer, it never got too hot, and the winters were mild. Like small towns the world over, everyone knew everyone else's business. While this could be a pain in your ass as a young man getting up to, who knows what. When you are old, it's reassuring to know that if you're not seen around, someone will check up on you. Tig allowed himself a smile as he watched the kids whizzing past on their skateboards. The world seemed to be full of young people these days.

He looked over as his friend walked over and joined him on the other end of the bench. They were the only ones left, they'd defied the odds and survived. You didn't grow old in this life. There was so much that could take you. The reaper stood on every mountain pass and lurked on the edges of every gun battle. Picking off their brothers one by one. Until there was only them.

The lot was deserted now. It now longer rang with the sounds of power tools, music no longer could be heard from inside the, now, boarded up clubhouse and it had been many years since a Harley had passed through it's gates. He shivered as a gust of wind stirred up the dust and debris and a flock of crows landed squawking, on the clubhouse roof.

They came here most days. They didn't talk much, just sat and remembered. Sometimes he envied those who had passed. They would never have to suffer the indignities of old age, the realisation that those things they'd always taken for granted were no longer possible. They would never experience the feeling of loss at the passing of each and every brother or the knowledge that when their time finally came, there'd be no mourners at the cemetery. There was no one left to mourn.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost see them. Could taste Bobby's muffins. Could hear Chibs' booming laugh, usually at Juice's expense.

The Scot had never really recovered from Juice's betrayal and it had been wrong of Jax to ask him to be his executioner. It may have been his duty as SAA, but Chibs loved that kid, and having a loved one die at your hands always came with a price. When he'd hit the barrier at ninety, no one had really been surprised. Grief and guilt had been clouding his judgment for months.

He looked over to the office window. How many times had Gemma peeked through those blinds? He swallowed. It still hurt to think of her. He knew what she was, how controlling and manipulative she had become. But he also knew how much she had been hurt and finally losing her family, the thing that meant most to her, had proved to much, and her already weakened heart had finally given up.

He sighed. Fucking Jax. He was supposed to be the one that put the club together again, not lead it further into the abyss. He had always been too cocky, too sure of himself and despite his protestations, never really had the best interests of the club at the forefront of his mind. He'd always wanted out, but lacked the courage to just walk away. When Tara had finally made good on her threats and left, taking his kids halfway across the country, he should have just gone with her, rather than staying behind and blaming the club for the break up of his family. More and more, he started making unilateral decisions and the club went from being a democracy to a dictatorship, and they were all too wrapped up in their own shit to notice. The more he got away with, the more cocky he became, taking bigger and bigger risks. Double crossing the Irish though, had been a step too far and retribution had been swift and decisive. The bomb that had ripped through the clubhouse had killed Bobby and Phil instantly. Jax had taken longer to die, but eventually he too had succumbed and the Redwood charter was no more.

Maybe if he'd believed Opie when he'd said he wasn't a rat, things would have been different. All he knew was, from the moment he saw Donna, her head against the steering wheel, blood trickling down her brow, nothing had ever been the same again. He could blame Stahl or Clay, but in the end, he'd pulled the trigger and sent the club along the path of destruction.

Happy glanced at his brother and friend of more years than he cared to remember. He knew he'd always blame himself for the loss of his club. While it was true he should take responsibility for his actions, as far as he was concerned Tig had paid the price a hundred times over. He understood the sense of loss. Hell no one would miss it more than him.

After the destruction of the Redwood charter he'd gone back to Tacoma. But the injuries he'd sustained in the bombing had taken their toll and after only a few years, riding became too difficult and he'd had to give up his seat at the table. It had been too painful to stay and watch his brothers as they headed out on runs so with a heavy heart he'd returned to Charming and the California sun.

Zipping his jacket against the chill winter breeze, he slowly got to his feet. "Too cold to be sitting out here, brother. How bout we head into town and grab a beer?"

Tig looked up and grinned. "Yeah, why not. The ghosts are shouting too loud today."

One by one the crows stopped their chattering and watched the two old friends make their way into town, before spreading their wings and flying into the setting sun.


End file.
